By Eastern windows

88

EIGHTY-EIGHT PUBLICATIONS

Dedicated in loving memory of two very special young angels now in Heaven

My beautiful niece

SUSAN AYEE

Who was born in a British military hospital in the East, and died young in the West.

And my nephew

RONAN BROWNE

A wonderful young man who loved the sea, his young wife Linda, his parents Richard and Maíre, and all of his family.

Panis Angelicus

Copyright © Gretta
Curran Browne 2012

First published in the USA by Eighty-Eight Publications 2012

The right of Gretta Curran Browne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Patents and Designs Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission of the Author, nor otherwise be circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a subsequent condition being imposed upon the subsequent publisher.

ISBN:
 
978-09572310-1-6

Cover actor: Andrew Southern

Cover photo: Ellena Smailes

Cover Design: E & A Creative Designs.

Eighty-Eight Publications

2 Spencer Avenue

London N13 4TR

Although presented here as a novel, and cloaked in the style of fiction, this story is true one based on the private letters, diaries and documents of Lachlan Macquarie, Elizabeth Campbell, and many of the other people involved.

For providing me with copies from microfilm of relevant documents from the Macquarie Papers, I am deeply grateful to the Mitchell Library in Sydney, as well as to the Archives Authority of New South Wales.
 

And my very special thanks to Andrew Southern in Australia.

PROLOGUE

Isle of Mull

Scotland 1787

The rising sun appeared like a huge golden ball hanging low in the sky, streaking its rays down the valley, dazzling the eyes of Donald Macquarie as he stood in the sheep field and squinted towards the ridge of the eastern hill where, just a few moments earlier, a young man had appeared and now stood outlined in the morning sunshine.

Donald stared at him, disbelieving, watching as the young man stood motionless, gazing around him as if observing every detail of the landscape. He was tall, and wore no hat, his sun-streaked hair glinting in the sun. But it was the clothes he wore that made Donald's heart pound in his chest – he was wearing the scarlet jacket of an officer of the line.

Donald felt a sudden quaking of excitement.
 
For the past ten years all his memories had been of a fifteen-year-old boy, not of a grown man, but the young officer on the ridge… He watched as the soldier continued his journey down the road that led to the farm, walking with a steady step and carrying a leather holdall in his hand. And only then – when he was absolutely certain that the oncoming soldier was his younger brother, did Donald suddenly abandon his watch and spring into an excited run.

‘
Lockie!
’

Lieutenant Lachlan Macquarie smiled as Donald reached him and crushed him into a fierce hug. He dropped his bag and hugged Donald just as strongly, laughing his delight. ‘Ah Donnie … man, it’s good to see you again.’

Donald's chest was still heaving with the power of his excitement, words only finding utterance after a number of long breaths. ‘Ye've come back, Lachlan, ye’ve come back!’

`Aye, I have, but you knew that I would, Donald.’

‘I didna know, Lachlan, I didna know anything!
 
I feared never to see you again!’ Donald pointed back at the field. ‘Ask the sheep, they know what I feared.’

Lachlan felt his throat tighten and that old pain returning – that dull pain of pity he had always felt for his older brother. Donald was now twenty-nine-years old, a man whom their father had always described as ‘the bonniest lad in all Scotland,’ but a lad who would always have the mental age of an innocent child.

From as far back as Lachlan could remember, Donald had worked the farm quietly and diligently and had always seemed bewildered when the cruel children of Mull shouted to him that he was ‘No` the full shilling!’ He lived a solitary life, close to his mother, and Lachlan had been the baby brother that Donald had petted and loved and helped to bring up. But now it was Lachlan who was the man.

‘Mother will be over the moon when she sees you!’ Donald snatched up the holdall. ‘Come on, Lachlan, I canna wait to see her face when ye walk in!’

In the large, neatly kept kitchen of the farmhouse, Mrs Macquarie was sitting by the fire knitting, the needles moving at a rapid pace, her back to the door.

‘Hello, Mother.’

She turned … her eyes widening as she stared at the red coated young officer who stood smiling at her, as disbelieving of his actual presence as Donald had been earlier.

‘Lachlan!’ she finally breathed. ‘Oh, praise God …’

Donald could not contain his excitement when he saw the expression on his mother's face, rubbing his hands with pleasure as she threw down her knitting and rose to welcome Lachlan with a joyous hug.

Mrs Macquarie drew back, holding her youngest son at arm's length, her eyes gazing over him in wonderment
-
so changed from the fifteen-year-old boy she had last seen. And by! – So handsome now! He looked tall and fit and strong, and even his hair had changed to a sun-streaked light brown, no longer as blond as corn. Only his eyes remained the same, those smiling brown eyes that always reminded her of her dead husband.
 
Her son, a man now, and back from America at last.

‘To think …’ she said finally, ‘that you’re now twenty-five. Oh, son … what a shock! When did ye get in?’

‘Last night…’ Donald had his arms around Lachlan, hugging him again. ‘I sailed over from Oban on the late ferry then stopped off to spend the night at Uncle Murdoch's house before setting out this morning.’

‘What? Ye came all the way from Lochbuy this morning? Did ye get a lift or did ye walk? Have ye had any breakfast?’

‘No, I left hours before breakfast. I wanted an early start for my very long walk.’

‘Then sit yourself down while I cook ye some breakfast,’ she ordered. ‘You too, Donald, come and sit down with your brother.’

Donald sat down at the table next to Lachlan, giggling irrepressibly at the delicious joy and surprise of it all.

By evening time the farmhouse at Oskamull was packed with relatives come to greet the returned soldier. Mrs Macquarie watched Lachlan with secret pride as he sat surrounded by a group of admiring cousins. She listened to the tales of his travels and the friends he had made.

Lachlan was not the only fifteen-year-old who had left home to join the scarlet battalions crossing the Atlantic to fight in the American Revolution. A year – they had all thought they would be coming back home in a year – but the war had lasted seven years, the Americans had proved unbeatable, and now the rule of George the Third had been replaced by the rule of George Washington.

In his ten years away, she learned, he had served with the 89
^th
Regiment in Canada, then in the second battalion of the 71
^st
in New York, finally shipping out from America with the 71
^st
, not for home, but a further two years service in Jamaica.

‘Jamaica?’ she asked curiously. ‘Where is that now?’

Lachlan smiled. ‘Where it has always been, Mother, on the other side of the world.’

Three mornings later, Lachlan returned to his uncle’s estate at Lochbuy, strolling easily down the path through the long green lawns and up the steps to the front door of the huge Georgian grey-stone house.

Murdoch Maclaine had almost finished his breakfast when Lachlan was shown in to the dining room.

‘You sent for me?’ Lachlan looked questioningly at his uncle, a broad and solid man of forty-six years who was still a bachelor and always wore a fraught expression on his face.

‘Sit in,’ Murdoch ordered, pointing to a chair. ‘Take some tea.’
 
He pushed a white china cup and saucer towards Lachlan and beckoned for the maid to pour. When she had done so, he waved a hand in dismissal and watched her flurry out, then sat back and gazed gravely at Lachlan.

‘You do
know
why I sent for you, don’t ye, lad?’

‘No, not yet.’ Lachlan tasted his tea.
 

‘We need to discuss your debts.’

‘What debts?’ Lachlan frowned.
 
‘I have no debts.’

Murdoch could not restrain a smile of gentle reproach. ‘Is that right now? No debts? Well, let’s you and me talk some more and I’ll refresh your memory.’

Lachlan listened in absolute silence while his uncle did all the talking, reminding him of the great debt Lachlan owed to him, and without which Lachlan could never have succeeded in becoming an officer of any rank in the British Army. But he
had
become an officer, and he
had
earned an officer’s
pay
along with it – and all thanks to his very generous uncle, Murdoch Maclaine.

Lachlan finally understood, but Murdoch held up a hand and talked on. ‘I’m a practical man, Lachlan, and I had no intention to be cruel, no, but when your father died so young and left my sister a widow, I just didna have the money to waste on any education for Donald. What good would it have done, eh? But I did spend a great deal on
your
education in Edinburgh. And as I say, I’m a practical man, so I trust I can now reap some profit from that investment.’

‘Profit?’

‘Aye, profit – by you becoming my estate manager, now that you’re back and full-grown. I’ll be handing over to you complete control of all papers of business relating to Lochbuy. You were always a genius with figures, so now I’ll be putting into your hands the books and accounts and all the responsibility for the collection of rents from the tenants, the payment of wages, all of it.’

Lachlan sat back in his chair, a sardonic expression on his face as he eyed his uncle. ‘And there was me …’ he said wryly, ‘all these years, thinking your decision to educate me was due to family love and consideration for your widowed sister.’

Murdoch helped himself to more bread and flourished his knife over the butter. ‘I’ll pay you a wage of course. And you’ll still have some time to help Donald at your own place. Should be easy for a strong young soldier like you. So now – I have a visitor arriving shortly, and before she arrives I need to know if you intend to honour your debt by agreeing to sort out my accounts and become my estate manager?’